Everything was perfect. The first winter was the hardest, but now life was returning to the land: the sun caressing each individual blade of with its golden touch, the wind a constant murmur through the trees, the dew trickling off the delicate flower petals each morning, filling the air with a sweet, irresistible fragrance. It was perfect.
There would be an occasional water snake now and again, sometimes eating the insects, sometimes eating the rabbits. That's what hurt George the most: not that his crops were failing, or that the rain sometimes flooded his soil, but that the snakes would eat his rabbits.
Despite everything, though, it was perfect. Peacefully redeeming. Lennie would have loved it, thought George.
The wind rustled through the trees once more, caressing the long fur of the rabbits, gently playing with their soft hairs. The rabbits lay motionless, blinking, twitching their whiskers from time to time. George watched the exchange between the wind and the docile rodents with quiet reverence, breathing in his surroundings as the lids of his eyes came to rest together.
He looked up at the blue sky, impossibly clear, not so much as one single cloud obscuring its elegant beauty. But the wind kept on blowing and blowing, through the trees, tossing the leaves into the air, painting the clear blue sky with delicately scattered tints of yellow and red.
Sometimes, especially during the night-time, George would be able to hear Lennie whispering with the wind. It was those nights that he would take the rabbits into his home, into his bed, and pet them lovingly, methodically, as if they were magnificently fragile, and each stroke of his hand, each caress of his finger, was a threat to the rabbits' existence. It was those nights that he would hold the rabbits close to him, crying his tears into their soft fur; all the while, the rabbits would be shaking with fear: fear of the cold, wet tears, fear of George's too hard grip on their fur, fear of the reckless sobs resounding through the dark, enclosed space.
It was easier in the daytime, where he could see the rabbits hopping freely throughout the fields, the wind constantly caressing their fur. The rabbits would sometimes munch on the fallen red and yellow leaves, ignoring the alfalfa altogether. Yet the lonely clovers would get eaten. It didn't take long for George to find out what was eating the alfalfa, since the rabbits were in a world away from the clover garden.
He'd set up traps in the thick brush, and a few days later, when he came to see if his trapping technique was successful, found a brown mouse. It looked frightened, vulnerable. Rather then killing the creature, as he should have done, George allowed it to come and go as it pleased. For reasons he could not explain, or even hope to comprehend, he felt soothed by the presence of the mouse, repentant. He would visit with the mouse everyday, always pleased at its progress of courage with each passing day, allowing the mouse to crawl into the palm of his hand, paw over his skin, smell his scent. George felt accepted.
But one day there was a storm, and the rain washed away most of the leaves, fracturing the fragile alfalfa stems. As if to show its apologies, the weather – the sky – produced a rainbow, promising sunshine and happiness, asking forgiveness, pleading for a second chance. When the rain was reduced to a light drizzle, George ran outside to fins his mouse. He had herded all his rabbits indoors, but couldn't find his mouse before the storm.
He reached the clover patch, digging through the broken stems and leaves, digging through the brush, through the decomposing matter. Then his finger caressed something soft. He cupped the shape in his hands, feeling the damp fur lay motionlessly in his palm.
The mouse was dead.
It was just a stupid mouse. Stupid mouse! Ein't nottin' special 'bout no stupid mouse.
He began to sob again, his tears joining the remainder of the falling rain. The rabbits stayed safely indoors.
Time passed silently.
It got cold. Snow began to fall. Winter again. The rabbits stayed safely indoors, brokenly dreaming of perfection.